


Take Flight

by TheWolvenStorm



Category: game of thrones
Genre: Baby Making Smut, Dragons, F/M, Jonerys Secret Santa 2019, Mentions of Difficult Pregnancy, Mentions of Moon Tea, Pregnancy, Smut, Targling's first flight on her own, targlings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22112500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWolvenStorm/pseuds/TheWolvenStorm
Summary: On her daughters tenth name-day, Daenerys ponders what has happened over the past ten years and the future for her family, House Targaryen and Westeros."She feels his presence next to her. Her husband slinking his arms around her waist and resting his chin atop her braids. Its instinct to lean back into his arms. Instinct to let him hold her weight for a few moments as she untangles the knots of anxiety in her belly.“Are you sure she’s ready?” he whispers. His beard tickling her ear.Licking her lips, she turns and rests her head against his shoulder. “She says she is and I fear that if we wait much longer she’ll go off and do it on her own.”“If she hasn’t already,” he grumbles.“Don’t worry, Jon Snow,” she chides, turning in his arms with a laugh. “The last thing our daughter needs is her father brooding on her name day.” It draws a smile from him. The skin around his eyes crinkling as his lips pull tight. “Besides... “ putting her hands to his cheeks, “We were born for this.”
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 41
Kudos: 219





	Take Flight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReinaWritesStuff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinaWritesStuff/gifts).



> Ummmm so this was supposed to be for Secret Santa.  
> But... its January 5th soo... uhhhhhh.  
> Happy National Bird Day.  
> (It's a thing. I googled it. Which makes this title SUPER Appropriate)  
> It's also national tourism day in India which is ~also~ very cool. 
> 
> lol 
> 
> Happy Candlenights Reina.  
> I'm so sorry its late. I wish you the best in this new year and all the years to come.  
> This was a lot of fun to write. It's got some Targlings, and its got some smut, and some flying and some Dragons.  
> I asked if you had any squicks for the smut and you said nope.  
> So *fingers crossed* :) *finger guns*  
> It's actually pretty vanilla. Some like light dirty talk. Some Baby-making but not like ~breedy~ if you catch my drift.  
> If you want something kinkier/(unlessx3) ... you let me know. We'll have a nice ~wholesome~ chat.  
> AnyWhosical.  
> Happpy Candlenights. Happy New Year. Happy Presidents Day. Happy National Bird Day. And Happy Indian Tourism Day.

She storms along the long stone walkways of Dragonstone, boots thudding against the hard dark stone that lead to the grassy cliffs overlooking the sea. She’s late. Of all the days for the court to keep her busy. The Dornish prince yammering away about glass and trade restrictions with Braavos.

They had come to Dragonstone to get away from all the politics and royal duties. Just for a little while. To celebrate Rhae’s tenth name day in peace as a family.

But the Dornish princeling had found them there, diverting his ship when he saw the dragons leave King’s Landing. Interrupting their quiet with something that could have waited till they returned to the capital. Dorne had plenty of trading partners, and coming to blows with the Iron Bank because of glass wasn’t something she had a mind to do. His interruption had already cost her a morning exploring the caves and beaches of the island with Jon and her babies. If that arrogant prick made her late for this she would—

“Do you want to fly too?”

At the sound of her husband’s voice, she slows to a stop. Taking the deep ritual breaths she always takes before spending time with her family. Exhale to strip away her queenly mask, her rigid posture. Inhale to become soft, and warm. Exhale to rid herself of the worries of piecing a country torn to shreds by years of war and ruin. Inhale to fill herself with to bursting with the love she has for them. Exhaling the queen, inhaling the mother.

Jon sits and laughs, under a pavillion decorated in red and black. Balancing their son on his knee. The little tot smiling back at him. Her precious boy, her Aemon. Her little dragonwolf.

Ghost lays at their feet, lazily lifting his head from the large bone tucked in his paws to watch as Jon stands and lifts their son over his head.

“Are you ready?” her husband asks their son.

The only answer is a nod and Aemon spreads out his arms as if in flight, a broad smile on his face as Jon tosses him a few feet in the air. His blonde curls flying wild in the fall. And his little laugh, that joyful noise babbling from their boy. It breaks her heart and puts it back together all at the same time.

Beyond them, her own little mirror paces the cliffs edge, looking out over the sea, and huffing impatiently. Her fiery, stubborn dragon princess crossing her arms and growling to herself.

Rhae. Her girl with long silver locks braided just like hers, and big eyes that reflect everything. Her girl who smells like miracles. Her girl that she hoped for against all hope. The hope that kept her going in the darkest moments. When even the love of her life had abandoned her, and she was all alone. Her hope. Her future. Her daughter.

“How much longer?” Rhae’s crystal clear voice rings out over the crashing surf beneath them.

“Not much, I’m sure.” Jon answers, catching Aemon in midair, and tossing him up again. “Blame that Dornish ass.”

“I do,” Rhae growls back. “When I’m queen, I’ll take Dawnfire and—”

“Rule justly and fairly,” she announces, finally making her presence known. Striding towards her daughter, crossing her arms behind her back. A smile tucked behind her eyes as she approaches. “As befits a queen.”

Rhae assumes the same posture, looking so much herself at that age. But at the same time, so different. On her tenth name day, her and Viserys were drifters in the free cities. Moving from house to house among whatever wealthy patrons thought they could use them for their own purposes. Before Viserys eventually destroyed whatever goodwill they had gained.

Her daughter does not carry that history. Her face holds no scars of trauma or loss. No insecurity or fear. She is confident, strong, independent.

A lump catches in her throat as she catches Jon out of the corner of her eye. They did that. They broke the cycle of abuse and loneliness that plagued both their childhoods. And now before them stands a young woman. A child, their child. Born of love, raised with care, ready to face whatever may come.

Rhae does not catch the glance that flits between her parents as her face twists into a smirk.

“You give the Dornish too much leniency, Momma,” her daughter's own animated eyebrows reaching high towards her hairline, beckoning the challenge. “It’s the mistake our ancestors made.”

“Careful Rhae,” Jon warns, slinging Aemon over his shoulder. The tot erupting with a peal of laughter. Her husband trudges over with steady bouncing steps, jostling the child slung across his back. “Hey love,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, before spinning around so she can greet her son.

“Mama!” the boy squeals, reaching for her. She cups his face and plants a few kisses on his nose as he hangs upside down from Jon’s back.

“Hello, my love,” she returns, carefully pulling the tot to her hip. He’s getting heavy. Growing up too fast. “Did you have fun in the caves this morning?”

Her son nods enthusiastically, lips pressed together with each deliberate bob of his head. “Papa showed us the-the pictures that the men did.”

“Really?”

“And-and the Dragonglass.”

“Did you find any pretty pieces?”

Her son babbles a response that she doesn’t quite understand and squirms in the way he does when he wants to be let down. She lets him. Lets him run off on his short little legs as he goes to play with Ghost. The Direwolf loping after him as he runs along the grassy knoll.

Clasping her hands together and letting them hang low on her belly, she turns back to her daughter. “What were you saying about Dorne, Rhae?”

“The Prince,” sneering the title. “Is trying to assert his authority by coming here instead of waiting at King’s Landing.”

When had she become so adept at politics? When had her little girl who spent her days chasing Ghost through the Godswood grow into this young woman?

“Quite, but that is not a capital offense.”

“It’ll lead to him becoming bolder.”

“And how do you suggest we put him in his place?” she asks.

“You and I should go down to Dorne on Drogon and Dawnfire and melt their sand dunes into their precious Glass. Put a wall of it at the south of Westeros. To match the one up North.”

She drums her fingers across the knuckles of her opposite hand for a long minute glancing to Jon who simply shrugs. All these years and he still has no head for politics. And it's not actually a bad idea, though a bit premature. The threat of a Dornish rebellion always hangs in the air but a few offenses don’t make a full blown revolt.

She leans in to her daughter, who remains standing upright and defiant and tall. “Perhaps it’s not wise to teach you how to ride Dawnfire just yet?”

After the conquest of Kings Landing, after her coronation, after the wedding, she and Jon had returned to Dragonstone for a short while. A small respite from the war and the chaos and the tediously difficult work of rebuilding. She’d been swollen with child and needed rest after more than one assassination attempt. So they’d retreated to Dragonstone to await the birth of their child.

Her Dothraki midwife advised long walks to coax the child to sit low in her womb. So she and Jon spent their days exploring Dragonstone. And on one of the long leisurely excursions they'd found the eggs hidden in one of the caves built into the cliffs of Dragonstone. Three eggs, so very much like the three eggs she’d been given so very long ago.

Viserion.

She knew they were her fallen dragon’s as soon as she touched them. Each one splattered with filaments of gold. And when Rhae was born, after a long night clutching Jon’s shoulders, crying with labour pains. After a long night of sweat and blood and fear for her life, Rhae rested in her arms alongside a cream and gold egg.

The legends said that Targaryen children would sleep with their eggs to bond with them. And so Rhae did. From the night of her birth, to a night some time before her fourth name day. When she and Jon awoke to the sudden roar of flames in the hearthfire. Their room in Kings Landing glowing orange with the heat.

In front of it stood Rhae, dropping logs into the fire. Stoking the flame as she’d watched her father do every night before bed. In the flames was her egg. Cracking and hissing with the heat.

“They told me to,” Rhae had said, her words clear and precise. “They want to be set free.”

She and Jon sat with her front of the fire for hours, stoking it with Rhae. Servants fetching more wood and oil. Building the fire up hotter. She’d held her daughter tight, telling her the story of how Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion hatched. How scared she was. How determined. Jon had held them both during that part. Their small family crowded in his lap.

They’d fallen asleep at some point, and woke with the first light of the morning sun piercing the large windows of the Red Keep. And in her daughter’s arms, a small dragon sat curled up in a tight ball. Cream and gold, and glinting in the dawn.

Rhae balks, blue eyes so very much like her own going wide before narrowing to slits. “Perhaps I don’t need you to teach me after all.”

There was a part of her that knew that was true. That Rhae’s bond with Dawnfire was innate beyond anything she had experienced with Drogon, or Jon with Ghost. They had had to spend years honing their gifts, forging that bond, practicing commands and communication. But for Rhae, the bond was immediate and… fluid. One of the wildlings said it was warging beyond anything they’d ever seen before. They could communicate, not like the mostly one sided conversations she often had with Drogon. Rhae and Dawnfire understood each other, deeply, truly. They were part of each other. Something unbreakable.

Aemon still sleeps with his egg, a red and gold one. He talks to it, though many of his words are still babbling. Its begun become warm to the touch, and once, as she was tucking her son into bed, she swore she saw it twitch.

It might have been a trick of the light.

As for the final egg, matte black flecked with gold, she’d buried it herself. Trapped in a wooden box in the bowels of the Red Keep. Guarded by Balerion’s bones and her silence. No-one will steal her legacy from her family. Not again. Never again.

She smiles at her daughter, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around her slight frame. Kissing the young woman’s forehead gingerly.

“Happy Name-day Rhae,” she whispers, squeezing her tight before holding her by the shoulders. “Are you ready to fly?”

The answer is short and sure and spoken with a smile that radiates pure joy.

“Yes, Momma.”

Momma. So many people had called her mother. Mother of Dragons. Myhsa. Titles and honors she earned. But to hear it from Rhae’s lips always fills her heart beyond capacity.

“Then call them,” she urges, gesturing out to the sea.

Rhae beams, turning around in her arms out to the horizon, her shoulders relaxing beneath Daenerys’ palms. Big blue eyes slipping closed, as she peers through Dawnfire’s.

“Where are they?”

“Out at sea. They’re chasing a pod of dolphins. They’re fast. Drogon is frustrated they keep diving down.”

The thought touches a smile to her lips. Imagining the enormous dragon being outsmarted by a noisy fish.

“Call them home.”

Rhae seems to blink without ever opening her eyes and a moment later she hears it. A roar. Two roars. Loud and strong and echoing in the empty air.

She feels his presence next to her. Her husband slinking his arms around her waist and resting his chin atop her braids. Its instinct to lean back into his arms. Instinct to let him hold her weight for a few moments as she untangles the knots of anxiety in her belly.

“Are you sure she’s ready?” he whispers. His beard tickling her ear.

Licking her lips, she turns and rests her head against his shoulder. “She says she is and I fear that if we wait much longer she’ll go off and do it on her own.”

“If she hasn’t already,” he grumbles.

“Don’t worry, Jon Snow,” she chides, turning in his arms with a laugh. “The last thing our daughter needs is her father brooding on her name day.” It draws a smile from him. The skin around his eyes crinkling as his lips pull tight. “Besides... “ putting her hands to his cheeks, “We were born for this.”

His shoulders shake with a small laugh as he pulls her tight and kisses her. A hard and sudden kiss that devolves into something slow and sweet. She’ll never tire of his kisses. Not these ones. The ones that convey all the emotions he too often struggles to put into words. Adoration. Pride. Love. So much love.

“Ewwwww… Papa Stop!” Aemon shrieks in disgust. His small round faced pinched as if he’d bitten into something sour.

Jon lets out a hearty laugh. “I think someone disapproves, Dany.”

“Noooo,” she teases. “I just think someone else wants mama’s kisses.” Leaving Jon’s arms to scoop up her son and shower his face with kisses that he squirms and kicks to avoid. And then Aemon freezes and she does too. Because a deafening roar echoes overhead and a dark shape hides the sun.

Drogon, the last of her first born sons. Balerion the Black Dread reborn. The Black Shadow. He lands heavily on the cliffside. Leathery wings outstretched. He’s grown so much since Rhae’s birth. As large as a merchant ship, his long neck craning high overhead. The spines and fins along his back flaring as he sniffs those gathered on the cliffs. His hardened scales show the signs of too many battles nearly lost. Of too many ballista getting too close.

“Hello, my love…” she reaches for him, and he lowers his oversized head to her hand. The heat of his nostrils distorting the air around him. Flame orange glittering between the scales of his chest. “We are going to fly with Rhae today. Will you protect her, as you always have?”

He does not answer, but she didn’t expect one either. Drogon will watch for his sister. As he always has. As he always will.

Above him, a chittering noise rings of a much smaller Dragon. Their golden scales flashing as they dive down in an enthusiastic display. Twisting and dancing in long looping spirals before landing near Drogon with a high keening noise.

Rhae runs to her Dragon, nuzzing her face against the cream and gold scales. Whispering to them through their bond.

“Stay with Ghost, Son,” Jon instructs, following after their daughter. His hand brushing along the long neck before coming to the juncture of its shoulder and wings. Interlocking his fingers and kneeling before Rhae.

Daenerys climbs Drogon with practiced ease, settling at the base of his neck and leaning forward to hold onto the long frills.

They had discussed building a saddle, for safety, many years ago. But it would have been of no use. A dragon is commanded through its bond with its rider. No bridle, nor tack would do. And moreover, a Dragon is not a slave.

Now though, as she watches Rhae shakily put her foot into her father’s interlocked fingers, and reach awkwardly for Dawn’s spines, she doubts the choice.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” Jon assures Rhae as he boosts her up onto Dawn’s back. The golden dragon shifts as she climbs, unfamiliar with her weight and being grabbed in such a way. They let out a low curious rumble.

“Sorry Dawn,” Rhae says, sounding shaky as she hauls herself up beyond Jon’s reach.

“There you go, That’s it, my little queen,” her husband encourages as Rhae swings her leg over Dawn’s neck. “It’s just like riding a horse.”

“Papa.” Rhae answers flatly. “A dragon is nothing like a horse.”

“Oh my mistake.” Jon smiles up at her, holding their daughters gaze for a long minute as he pats Dawn’s neck.

They’ve been together long enough that she can read his expressions even without looking at his face. See his feelings in the slight shift of his stance, and the slant of his shoulders. He confirms her suspicions as he glances over his shoulder at her, his long black curls blowing in the wind.

It’s the same look he’s given her a thousand times since Rhae’s birth. Since that first night as she clutched his shoulders and screamed and pushed with all her strength. As he held her up and pressed kisses to her sweaty forehead as her Dothraki midwife bustled beneath her. As she was stretched open and they heard Rhae’s scream for the first time. As their little girl, their little princess was finally placed in her arms, covered in blood and slime, Jon looked at her with same look, full of love, and worry, and pride.

And he says what he said that night.

“She looks just like you…”

A smile she can’t help splits her face. Those same feelings bubbling up and out with nowhere to escape. Yes, Rhae is just like her, in every way that counts. Her hair. Her nose. Her eyes. The fire in her soul. Her impatience. Her righteous anger. Her stubbornness. Her confidence.

She answers Jon with the same thing she said that night.

“Look what we made…”

“Momma, Papa, stop being gross.”

Jon smiles, tossing a kiss to each of them before gathering Aemon up in his arms and retreating back a safe distance from the Dragons.

“Are you ready?” she asks her daughter.

Rhae leans over Dawn's neck, smoothing her dragon’s scales with her palm. And nods.

Dawn roars and stretches their wings out, the gleaming golden scales catching the high noon light. Wind gusts up and around her as Dawn beats her wings, the pale silver of Rhae’s hair flashing as they rise. A peal of laughter ringing high and true as the Golden Dragon climbs.

There is no greater freedom than riding a Dragon. No greater power. The first time she’d ridden Drogon was a panicked blur in the center of the Great Arena in Meereen. She’d given up that freedom then, trapping Rhaegal and Viserion deep within the Great Pyramid. Made the error that so many women make, mistaking meekness for goodness.

Drogon changed that. Reminded her who she was. Reminded her that she was the Mother of Dragons and the Breaker of Chains.

If she is the mother of Dragons, what does that make Rhae?

“Follow her Drogon,” she asks. “Keep her in sight.”

Drogon beats his wings, creating a powerful gust of wind that blows over the little pavilion on the cliffside and lifts them into the air. Jon and Aemon shrinking on the cliff as they climb higher and higher, chasing after Rhae.

They catch her after a moment. Dawnfire still trying to find their balance with the added weight of a rider. Rhae clinging to their spines with an iron grip, breathless and panting as she peeks around the dragon’s long neck to look down at the sea below.

“Momma, I’m flying!” she squeals.

Daenerys nods to her daughter and urges Drogon to fly straight toward the continent of Westeros on the horizon. “Keep up Rhae…”

At first, they fly on instinct. Dawnfire seeking to match Drogon, and Rhae only seeking to keep her eyes open against the wind. “Lean over,” she instructs, “Keep your head behind their neck so you don’t hurt your eyes.”

Rhae nods again and leans deep over Dawn’s neck, looking a little silly and unnatural. Very much like her father had, the few times he had ever gotten to ride Rhaegal.

Even after all this time, it still hurts, the loss of her firstborn sons. There were so many things that they should’ve done differently. She should’ve never trusted Tyrion to fight a war against his family. Should’ve never tried to negotiate with Cersei. Jon should’ve never gone beyond the wall. They should've married as soon as they arrived at Winterfell. She should’ve listened and waited for her troops to recover after the battle for the dawn. Should've listened to her instincts and travelled with her troops overland instead of by sea.

Shouldn't have trusted Tyrion. Should never had trusted Tyrion.

“Come Rhae, there’s something I want to show you.”

At her whim, Drogon begins to climb. Beating his wings hard. Dawnfire following at his side as they begin to pass through the clouds. The flecks of frozen air stinging her skin as the white mist blinds her.

“It’s cold,” Rhae shivers. “I didn’t expect clouds to be cold!”

“It’ll be over in a minute. Take deep breaths. The air is thinner the higher you climb,” she instructs as the gusts of air from the dragon’s wings distort the haze around them. Warping it to their whim as they finally break through the cloud cover. The sun bright and warm and sudden.

“Gods…” Rhae gasps. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yes. It is.”

They glide through the top of the cloud layer, the mist sometimes swirling up over their legs. The sun’s rays glittering over the icy dew. Their dragons carving away the clouds as they fly and roar. The ice growing thinner as they break over land.

Beneath them, the ocean falls away to the grey mass of stone, and then to the green gold of grass at the fringes of the crownlands. Her kingdoms, their kingdoms sprawled out before them as far as the eye can see.

She’s taken Rhae flying before. Her little girl would sit behind her, with Jon tucked around her in turn as they flew their little family around the seven kingdoms.

“No-one up here but us for over a hundred years Rhae,” she would say. “And no-one but our family rode dragons for over a thousand years before that. Only we have seen the world like this…”

The sight that only their family had ever seen shouldn’t be unfamiliar. But Rhae gasps all the same as they glide over the little fishing villages near the coast and the little broken castles of Lords long forgotten. The little specks of people and livestock going about their daily lives.

The smallfolk near the coast close to Dragonstone have gotten used to the sight of Dragons, yet they still stop as they pass overhead. What do they really feel when they see them? Targaryen and Dragon alike? These terrible beasts back from the dead? Do they see the Heir to the Iron Throne or the Conqueror of the Seven Kingdoms?

She already knows the answer.

Their lives are objectively better than they were during the decades of war and corruption that saw the kingdoms fall to ruin. Not having their crops burned and seized every season has done more for the smallfolk than any one law she has put into place. The peace that comes with conquest.

But recovery is a slow, tedious, uphill battle, and her legacy will always be scarred by fire and blood.

It was necessary. All of it. Executing the Tarleys. Varys. Jaime. Cersei. Tyrion. Sacking Kings Landing. Imprisoning Sansa on the Iron Islands. Subduing the North. Putting down every hint of revolt before it had a chance to spread. Letting the Dothraki trample the traitor’s lands.

It was all necessary.

Rhae is unable to tear her eyes away from the countryside as they soar overhead. Watching land change as they follow one of the Trident’s tributaries. Laughing whenever she catches a glimpse of some folk pointing up at the Dragons flying above.

The reconquest isn’t her Legacy. Her Legacy is Rhae. And Rhae will bear all the fruits of her labor. When it's time for Rhae to ascend to the throne, the Kingdoms will have been at peace for many years. The small folk will be thriving, and the unruly greed of the Lords will have been censured by her laws and her taxation.

And Rhae will be a strong and beloved ruler. The protector of the Seven Kingdoms. Daughter of Dragons. Bringer of the Dawn.

“It looks so different, now that I’m flying on my own,” Rhae muses practically hanging off Dawnfire’s neck to look down at the landscape below. “From up here, they really do look like SmallFolk.”

Daenerys laughs, and nods. “Yes, I find it puts things in perspective,” she explains. “We aren’t trapped in our keeps like other rulers. We can see how things are for ourselves. See with our own eyes.”

Rhae nods and straightens, her silver hair lifting on the breeze. Her lips pursed in thought.

“But they’re afraid of us, even though we protect them, even though… we actually care.”

“Most people are afraid of Dragons. It’s natural.”

“We’re the odd ones,” Rhae laughs and she joins in.

“Yes, that’s a unique way of looking at it.” She smiles and looks out to the horizon, the sun painting lines of pink as it begins to descend. “We should turn back, it's getting late. Your father is probably pacing the cliffside worried sick.”

Jon always paces that same place when he waits for her. More than once she’s jokingly threatened to build him a widowers walk. To which he always balks and gets serious, reminding her it isn’t funny to joke about her own death like that. Pleading to let him worry in peace.

Rhae is more confident on their flight back to Dragonstone. Her stiff posture becomes more natural and relaxed and she even strays away from Drogon for a short while. Dawnfire diving down low, their claws gliding over the dark surface of the water. The spray soaking Rhae as she squeals with laughter.

The mother inside her worries that her precious girl will get ill from the cold. The girl inside her wants to join in the fun. And Drogon listens, following Dawn, hovering nearby so she can enjoy the sound of her daughter's laughter.

As expected, Jon waits for them at the cliff. Alone, but that’s also to be expected. Aemon is no doubt tired from the morning exploring the Dragonglass caverns with his father. He likely became fussy and bored soon after their departure and was put down for his afternoon nap.

“Keep a tight grip as they land,” Daenerys instructs. “It can get a little bumpy.”

Rhae cringes and nods, clinging onto Dawns spines as they land heavily on the cliff face. Dawn beating their wings furiously as they try to balance the weight of Rhae and the desire for a smooth landing.

Jon smiles up at her, his hand extended for Drogon’s snout. “How did she do?”

“She’s a true Dragonrider,” Daenerys proclaims proudly.

“I never had any doubt.” He pats along Dawnfire’s long neck and reaches to help Rhae down. Her daughter slipping easily into her father’s arm. “You’re soaked!”

“Dawn saw the dolphins again and they wanted to play,” Rhae shivers, as Jon pulls off his massive fur cloak and wraps it around his little girl. Kneeling and fussing to make sure its tight around her. Patting her shoulders.

“Next time we’ll remember your seal skin.”

“Yes Papa.”

Jon smiles and embraces Rhae, holding her close for a long while. Their daughter's head tucked against his neck as she listens to what he whispers in her ear. And her face spells what he says, the treasured endearments of a father’s love and pride and faith.

There are tears in his eyes as he pulls away and kisses Rhae’s forehead. And his voice is thick when he asks her to tell him about her flight.

And she does, taking his hand as they turn toward the castle. Telling him how cold clouds are and all the thoughts she and Dawn shared as they flew.

“Thank you,” Daenerys turns to Drogon and Dawnfire. Touching her palms to each of their outstretched snouts. The fire beneath their scales warming her skin.

And to her surprise Drogon reaches for her. The tether between their souls tugging taut. Drogon so rarely reaches for her like this. He was always the bravest, strongest and most independent of her firstborn. But as she opens herself to him, she is flooded with feeling. Growth and legacy. Life. Family. Young. Three Eggs engulfed in flame. Burning. Hatching. Brothers.

It feels like instinct in some way. A thing she must do. A thing she has no choice but to do. Faith. Fate. Like when she first walked into Drogo’s pyre all those years ago. When she broke the chains of the enslaved. When she burned Vaes Dothrak. When she witnessed the Night King kill Viserion. When she saw Jon’s scars. When she melted the Iron Throne.

Faith. Fate.

“I understand, my love,” she whispers and presses a kiss to his snout. Her thoughts reeling as she shakily strides to catch up with Jon and Rhae.

Their daughter’s birth had been difficult and laden with fear. Her own mother had died in childbed. Jon’s too. It was a fear that loomed all throughout her pregnancy. Her hope and desire for a child edged with the terror that she would not survive it. That neither of them would survive.

She almost hadn’t. And the thought of becoming with child again terrified her for many years. Risking her life again. No matter how much she wanted more. No matter how much she wanted a large family. She and Jon had taken great calculating pains to avoid it. Even sleeping separately when her Dothraki midwife claimed she was in the most fertile part of her cycle. No matter how much she longed for his embrace. They were careful.

Her life wasn’t worth a few moments of passion.

But then they made a mistake, or miscalculated or simply gotten lazy. Let passion get the better of their wits. And soon she’d been with child again.

And it had been easy. Well… easier. Perhaps because they were no-longer fighting a war, no longer putting down rebellions. Perhaps because she was not so distraught in grief from the loss of her dearest friends. Perhaps it was simply because Aemon was her second child and she had already been through it once before.

Now Aemon is walking and beginning his lessons. If the example Rhae set continues, his Dragon will hatch by years end. He’s growing, strong and fast. Much too fast. Her baby boy won’t be a baby much longer. Soon he will be sprinting around the castle too quickly to catch. Jon will train him in the sword, and he’ll join the boys down in the yard playing at being soldiers.

A Dragon has three heads. And Viserion gave her three eggs.

Her hands drift low on her belly and press against that place inside her where her children grew. Could she give Jon another baby? She knows he wants more. Wants his children to grow up surrounded by siblings just like he did. But he’s never pressed her. Never tried to force her. Left without a fight on those nights it was too risky for them to be intimate.

He smiles as she catches them and drapes his arm around her shoulders as Rhae sprints through the castle halls to her room to dry off.

“It seems you two had quite an adventure,” he muses, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She hmms and draws close to him, her hand slipping along the small his back to circle his waist.

“It was. We flew over the Trident, surveyed a few fishing villages,” she responds absently.

They walk together, slowly to their chambers. The soft leather of their boots scuffing the stone floors. Nodding politely to the Unsullied guards that protect them. In an ideal world, they would have long begun incorporating the second son’s of lower lords into their personal retinue. But this is not an ideal world. And she does not trust anyone but her own to protect her babies.

There are no guards in their private chamber though. For now it seems, they are alone. She sips the wine left for her and walks out onto the stone balcony overlooking the sea. The Dragon’s shadow silhouetted against the rising moon.

“I spent some time with our Dornish Prince while you were out flying,” Jon explains, moving about the chamber behind her, swapping out his leather jerkin for a simple black linen shirt and pants.

She hmms in response, taking another sip of her wine.

“I think he’s here to try to start talking about marriage. He must’ve told me that his son is only two years older than Rhae six times. I nearly decked him.”

“She’s growing into a beautiful young woman. It’s annoying but, you’ll have to get used to it.”

“No, I don’t.” he answers flatly. Something menacing and dangerous lacing his voice.

The sound of music comes from the central chamber of their living quarters, a bard they invited to come sing for Rhae’s name-day. They’ll sing the Song of Ice and Fire in her and Jon’s honor. Though Rhae much prefers songs of Nymeria’s conquest, the battle ballads of the Free Folk, and the filthy sailor songs that Yara taught her.

Rhae’s true name-day celebration will be in King’s Landing. A tournament, and feast. She had already had to talk Jon down from competing. A brash display to keep any upstart young knights from presenting his daughter with a crown of roses.

But tonight it is their little family, and the bard, of course. Perhaps, if she and Jon ask in just the right way, they’ll be able to convince Rhae to play for them. One of the first gifts Rhae ever received was a small golden harp, from Sansa’s cousin, Robert Arryn. “In honor of her namesake, the Prince Rhaegar.”

It had meant to be a slight to her, a warning of the secret Sansa possesses. But Rhae loved the small harp. And so with time, and lessons from an Essosi tutor, the insult has blossomed into a delight.

Jon slips behind her and untethers the chain crossing her chest and the capelet from her shoulder. Silence permeates the gestures as his quick, dexterous fingers loosen the ties of her coat, and helps pull it off her shoulders. She shivers in the night chill. Her skin prickling with gooseflesh.

“What’s on your mind, my queen?” he whispers, finally wrapping his arms around her waist, nestling his chin against her ear. She reaches back, scratching his beard as he presses small kisses to her temple. Weaving their fingers together around her waist.

“I was thinking-” she starts, staring off at the moon rising over the horizon. “-I was thinking about us having another baby.”

He stiffens behind her, his breath catching in his throat behind her ear. The tell-tale signs that she’s surprised him. She doesn’t mean to catch him off guard. But she does. Too often.

“I’m not too old,” she reminds him, turning in his arms, capturing his hand. “And Aemon isn’t a baby anymore, and since the decree that Oldtown must also train women as Maesters, there have been many midwives…” she starts to ramble, but he cuts her off with a kiss on her knuckles.

“Dany,” he starts, pausing to tangle their fingers together. Staring into her eyes. “Why do you want to have another baby?”

“A Dragon must have-”

“No.” He shakes his head. “None of that nonsense. That prophecy never did anyone any good. Why do you want to have another baby?”

“It’s not nonsense.”

“Well it's not a good enough reason to risk your life.”

“I just told you there’s less risk now.”

“That’s not the point, Dany.” When she doesn’t answer right away he cups her face in his hands. “I’m not saying no.” He smiles a bit. “As if there was a chance I could deny you anything. Just think it over some more. We have time...”

From the central chamber, they hear a peal of laughter coming from Aemon as the music takes on jaunty tune, accompanied by his uneven claps. And the small smile on Jon’s face grows. Crinkling the corners of his eyes in the way that still makes her stomach tie up into knots.

“Come, my queen. Let’s celebrate our daughter’s name-day.”

“Go ahead, my love. I’m going to change into something looser.”

The smile waivers on Jon’s face for an instant, before returning. “Don’t stay in your head too long, love.” Quickly squeezing her hand as he disappears into their rooms.

“I won’t.”

She meditates on her husband’s words as she mindlessly flicks through the dresses in her wardrobe, before selecting a simple loose draping one and tugs it over her head in a swift motion. Quickly undoing the braids and bells of her hair, tying the long silver strands into a loose tail resting at the base of her neck.

There have been many moments, where she has felt this same urge. This call to action. This tug of destiny. They all felt immediate and necessary and she never thought to ignore them. Instead she acted on faith. Faith in herself alone.

But she is no longer just herself, she has her family, her country, her people. This is not the moment at Drogo’s pyre, where she had nothing left to lose. Nor the moment in the temple of the Dosh Khaleen. She stands on no precipice. Her enemies are dead or defanged. Her kingdoms are at peace and there is no immediacy to this moment.

Perhaps it is just a calm before an unseen storm.

The warm glow of the hearthfire and braizers fill the celebration with light and heat. Rhae’s favorite foods fill the small table. A veritable feast for such a small gathering. The bard strums in the corner as Rhae licks the juice of plum sweets from her thumb. A coy smile on her face as she stares down Jon over a Cyvasse board. Her husband bounces Aemon on his knee, the little tot smearing molasses cake over his face.

“Are you going to take your turn?” Rhae teases, a knowing smile creeping across her face.

“M’ thinking,” Jon answers, adjusting his hold on Aemon, and reaches for his elephant. Then quickly withdraws his hand, and moves toward the catapult instead.

“Are you sure, Papa?” Rhae bites her lip, stifling a laugh when Jon’s face screws up in frustration.

She takes the moment to glide into the room and take a seat at the table, taking Aemon from Jon’s lap and examining the board.

Rhae has got him good. Her spearmen have Jon’s heavy horse pinned down. His Dragon is locked at the far end of the board in what appears to be a premature attempt to take Rhae’s king. His own king is vulnerable, protected only by the elephant. He has no offensive moves left, though he appears to be trying to get his catapult in position. And Rhae has not moved her Dragon yet.

It’ll be over in a few moves.

Jon swears and moves his catapult. Rhae blocks its further movement with her rabble. Jon pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs and moves his elephant. And Rhae takes his king with her Dragon.

“Cyvasse!” she proclaims, settling back in her chair, and grabbing another plum sweet in triumph.

Jon looks over at her, disheartened and shaking his head. She reaches for him, rubbing his shoulder in slow circles, before leaning in to kiss his cheek..

“There was a time when I was good at this game.”

“I remember,”

“I don’t know what happened.”

“I want to play too!” Aemon interrupts reaching for the pieces with his sticky fingers. Smearing sugary syrup all over the discarded trebuchet.

“Let’s clean your hands first,” she chides gently. Carefully removing the wooden carving from his hand. “Then Papa will teach you how.”

The warmth of the room seems to permeate her soul. Relaxing her into the comfort of her family’s company. Good food, a cup or two of wine. Aemon’s babble reciting all the things he saw today when Jon took him exploring. Rhae telling her baby brother all about flying and what it’s like to ride a Dragon. Jon’s arm wrapped around her as she slumps against him.

She doesn’t talk much, but watches, appreciating the smiles on her children’s faces. The warmth of her husband’s laughter. The gentle music filling the air. What would it be like, if they were not kings and queens. If they were not the Blood of the Dragon. What would this day be like for them? She would have spent the day slaving over this meal. There would be far fewer sweets, much more stew. Jon would have spent the day in hard labor. Rhae would be stitching and sewing, plucking chickens, shelling peas. Aemon would still be dirty and rowdy, though dirtier and perhaps rowdier.

But this would be the same. Their family sharing a meal around a small table, laughing, telling stories, singing songs. What would another face add to that family? Another mouth to feed? Another pair of hands to help with the tedium of daily life? Another voice to tell stories? Another ear to listen? Another babe to nurse, and rock, and sing to sleep? Another person to love?

Before she conquered the seven kingdoms, before she crossed the sea, she had resigned herself to a barren life. A life of duty, where the deepest affection she shared would be for her sons and her dear friends. But those affections were stolen from her, by darkest betrayal and cruelty. Leaving her empty and cold and alone.

And in that moment, in that quiet moment when all hope was lost, there was a flutter, deep in her womb. And she wasn’t alone anymore.

Jon hauls a sleeping Aemon off the floor and onto his shoulder. Winking at her as he carries their son to his nursery. Crumbs falling to the floor on his way out.

When he was little she would always nurse him to sleep, it was their time together to bond. Rocking back and forth on a plush chair, Aemon drinking from her as she hummed quietly. He’s been weaned for nearly a year, and the loss of them of that time, of that intimacy with her son leaves small cracks in her soul.

But in some ways it is better that he have this time to bond with his father. So that Jon may set the example of what true manhood really looks like. Not the posturing peacocking of the knights they so often find themselves surrounded by. But real honor. Real strength.

Rhae leans against her, sleepy and giggly from the little bit of ale they had let her drink. Her arm slung around her daughter’s waist as she guides her to her room.

“Momma, when can we go flying again?”

“Soon.”

“Do you think I could fly back to King’s Landing on my own?”

She bobs her head back and forth in thought. The flight back to King’s landing is much farther than they traveled today, but its a relatively straight shot, and if the weather stays warm, there shouldn’t be much to worry about. It’s not as if it's unfamiliar territory for Dawn and Drogon. The flights between Dragonstone and King’s Landing is one they fly often.

“Perhaps,” she answers, noncommittally.

Rhae’s bed chamber shows her change from girlhood to womanhood. The tall doll castle and its myriad of subjects, stand neatly stored in the corner. Gathering dust from disuse. The posts where Dawnfire used to sit, long gone with his growth. The ruffled dresses replaced with less bulky silhouettes. The mop of silver curls, braided tight against her scalp.

She helps Rhae undo them, letting the ringlets fall loose, and lazily picks up a comb to brush them smooth. Staring at her daughters reflection as Rhae hums happily to herself looking over a map. Tracing the route from Dragonstone back to Kings Landing with her fingers. Occasionally asking questions about the flight path. Pointing out the small islands they could use rest. Bolstering her argument to fly by back by herself.

Daenerys smiles down at her daughter. She had raised her to be independent. To have an unshakable faith in herself. To never think there was something she could not do. To be capable, self-reliant, strong-willed. She and Jon had cultivated those traits purposefully and with care. And all that hard work has come to fruition. Blooming in her daughter along with beauty, ferocity, and joy.

And as much as it swells her heart with pride, it breaks it as well.

The great joy and sorrow of children is that they grow up.

“Rhae…”

“Yes, Mama?” the princess answers without looking up from her map.

She crouches next to her daughter, emotions flooding her chest. Taking Rhae’s hands in her own.

“When I was young, I thought I was barren. I thought I’d never have love again. Never have children. A family. And I resigned myself to that belief. I thought it made me look strong. Made me seem powerful and unafraid. But the truth was…” she pauses measuring her words carefully. “The truth was I would go to bed, and weep for a family.”

She reaches for her daughters face. “I prayed to all those gods I don’t believe in, pleading for you.” Cupping her chin, gliding her thumb underneath her eye. “And here you are…” Squeezing her hand and kissing her knuckles. “And you are so much more than I ever dreamed of and I love you so much. I’m so proud of you, and I can’t wait to see the person you’ll grow to be.”

Rhae blushes and smiles, tugging a lock of hair behind her ear. “Thanks Momma. I love you too.”

If she stays much longer, she’s going to weep. So she dries her eyes and stands upright. Blotting her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffing quietly. “Now don’t stay up too late, we have to entertain the Dornish tomorrow. Off to bed.”

“Ughh, fine” Rhae exhales heavily and kisses her cheek before shuffling to the broad canopy of her bed. “Good Night, Momma.”

“Good Night, Rhae. Happy Name Day.”

The slow walk to her and Jon’s quarters is shaky and sniffling. Full of suppressed sobs of motherly emotion she hadn’t prepared herself for. She pauses at the door. Nodding to the guards and taking a moment to wipe away her tears before entering.

Jon kneels beside the hearth, stoking the flames and setting a large log in to burn throughout the night.

“She wants to fly to King’s Landing on her own.”

Her husband only snorts a small laugh in response as he stands upright, finding the tie that pulls his hair into to a low knot and tugging it free. His curls falling free around his head.

“Oh what have we done?” she sighs, collapsing backward onto their bed. Looking up at the heavy canopy. She’d given birth in this bed, ten years ago. Staring up at this exact canopy as she labored and cried and pushed.

To do it all again? Be torn open. Shake with fever. Watch her blood pool beneath her. See the fear reflected in Jon’s eyes. Feel weight leave her all at once. Hear the first helpless cries of a new life. Have a small body placed on her chest. Witness the eyes opening for the very first time. Be the very first thing that new life sees.

“We-” Jon starts, lying back on the bed beside her. “-Did good. I think.” He exhale heavily, letting all the air out his lungs. “Better than I expected at least.”

She raises her eyebrow and shoots him a look and he smiles in response, indicating he was joking. With a small laugh, she rolls turning to face him. Letting a silence hang between them as he matches her, and she traces the lines of his face. There are more than there once were. A handful of age lines joining his scars and laugh lines. The few sparse white hairs starting to pepper his beard.

“Want to do it again?”

The lines of his face crease and deepen as he searches her eyes. The dark endless pools inky black in the lowlight of their bedchamber.

“Its all I ever wanted” she shrugs on her side. “To be a mother.”

“You are a mother.” he counters, his hand seizing hers, brushing his thumbs across her knuckles. “A great mother. With two wonderful children.”

“Why not three?”

“I don’t-” Jon sighs, gathering his words. “I don’t want to risk your life because of some prophetic bullshit from three centuries ago. You’re worth more to me than that. I can’t lose you… Not for anything. Especially not for that.”

Her heart fills past capacity at his words, and she feels the tears threatening to spill from her eyes again. How did she get so lucky? Across the seven kingdoms, ladies are forced to be little more than vessels to squeeze out heirs. Sons to fight and inherit and bring honor to their families. Daughters to barter and trade and secure alliances.

But her husband and king only cares for her. She recalls the look in his eyes when they found out she was with child again. When she told him how scared she was. How he gingerly took her hands in his, and kneeled in front of her and spoke with slow determination. Offering her a way out. Telling her it was alright, if she wanted to drink moon tea. Telling her the most important thing was her and her well being. That he loved her, unconditionally, and unequivocally.

“Is it-” she blinks, needing to break away from the intensity of his gaze for a brief moment. “Is it not enough that I want more? That I want our family to grow? To have even more people to love? To want to grow old with you surrounded by our grandchildren and great-grandchildren?”

His eyes grow somber and sad. “Kings and Queens are so rarely blessed.”

“We will be,” she assures him, knowing it to be true. Deep knowledge, coming from somewhere within her soul. “We brought the Dawn.” He kisses her knuckles. “And I’m not afraid anymore.”

She feels his answer before he says it outloud. Watches his shoulders rise and fall as he breathes deep. Sees the liquid heat in his eyes when they open again. Gasps as he pulls her close to him, and kisses her.

Long and languid, mouths open and melding. Shifting slowly around each other. Crawling further up the bed. Slipping beneath him. Letting his solid frame press against her.

It’s been over ten years since that first night, and his kisses still leave her breathless. Stealing the air from her lungs, then giving her all of his. Easing between insistent and demanding to teasing and tempting, to soft and slow and sweet. Leaving her liquid beneath him.

His fingers tangle in her hair, cradling her head in his hands. Holding her near, reminding her how precious she is to him. Holding her still so he can feast on her lips at his whim. He presses his forehead against hers, their noses nuzzling as he sips on stolen kisses.

“Say it.” he whispers, his beard chafing her cheek. The soft words giving way to a greedy growl. “Tell me what you from me.”

She gasps, sucking in a shuddering breath. Suddenly feeling small beneath him. The molten heat growing and pooling in her belly quivers as she swallows and gives him what he asks. “Give me a baby, Jon Snow.”

They collide back together, tangling around each other. Hands and mouths roaming. His lips moving from her jaw to her neck. Her hands reaching around to pull his shirt free of his trousers and then tug it over his head. His curls growing wild as she uses them to bring him back to her.

Closer. She needs him closer. To feel all his skin against all of hers. To feel the raw edges of their souls fusing together.

And he needs the same. He proves it, tugging her hair to expose the long line of her throat. Leaving wet kisses there as his fingers work the loose lacing at the back of her neck. Pulling the cord free and shoving the dress down her shoulders. Struggling to shed her of her clothing while she wraps herself in him. Basking in the feel of his skin against hers. In his weight between her legs. In his hands tracing her sides, cupping her breasts. Drawing a nipple into his mouth with a long loving pull. Sucking softly, slowly. The apple of his throat bobbing with a swallow.

His dark eyes open, the heat within bringing the simmering lust within her to bubble. His tongue circling her hardening peak as he stares at her. Evoking the hunger low in her belly, between her hips. Leaving one for the other, letting his saliva cool in the night air.

He’d been fascinated with her body during her pregnancies. Moreso than usual. Watching her change. Watching her breasts become heavy, her nipples darken and swell, her skin stretch and tighten around an ever growing belly. He smothered her with a primal possessiveness that she hadn’t expected from him. A protective instinct that barely let her out of his sight for more than a few moments at at time.

It had been exhausting. It had been exhilarating. His doting. His pride. His curiosity. His stuttering chants of ‘Mine. Mine. Mine.’ as he claimed her over and over again. Making her sensitive body shudder and shake from his adoration.

His teeth scrape over her peak and she exhales a quiet swear, letting her head fall back onto the pillows as he soothes it with the warmth of his tongue. Her hips moving under his weight in a slow churn, seeking friction where she can find it. But his power is insistent. Demanding to keep her in place as he switches between her breasts, teasing and tonguing and tugging. Hands cupping and squeezing.

“Jon…” pleading, her head pressed back against the pillows. Arching into his mouth. “Please…”

“No, my queen,” a stretched nipple falling from his lips with a wet sound. “If I’m to get you with child again, who knows when I’ll next get to play with your tits.”

She barks out a laugh that quickly falls into a shuddering pant as he sucks her back into his mouth. The last time she’d been pregnant her breasts had been so sensitive they were painful to the touch. Only her Meereenese silks had been soft enough for her comfort. And those hadn’t been quite appropriate to wear to Westerosi court.

Jon grants her a small mercy as her whines grow desperate. Shifting above her to offer his knee slotted between her legs. Giving her the delicious friction she needs, her hips bucking against his skin, her folds parted and smearing over his thigh, her molten arousal leaking out.

He growls, nostrils flaring as she uses the change in position to give his own nipple a hard twist. The sudden move earning her a sharp bite and a coarse swear.

Strong hands grabbing her and rolling her on top of him. His cock hard and standing upright behind her as she sits on his stomach. His hands roam her with a feather light touch. Tracing the silver scarred rivulets her babies left on her body. Cupping her breasts, hanging lower and looser than they used to. But he worships her all the same, looking up at her with the same hunger he always has. The same love plain in his eyes as he shifts. Scootching down the bed until he wedges his shoulders between her spread legs.

The first kiss is always into the flesh of her thigh. Climbing up toward the apex, letting his beard scratch and scrape the sensitive skin. His arms wrapping around her legs to grab meaty handful of her arse. His tongue divides her in a long lick. The flat of his tongue finding all her folds ready for his feast.

And he does, flicking and fluttering. Dragging and drawing. Pulling and plundering all the hidden parts of her. Painting stripes of heat across her with each swipe of his tongue. Lewd wet noises coming from between her leg as he gathers her juices and spreads them over her.

“Gods Dany…” he murmurs, lips smacking. “You’re so wet for me.” Breathless beneath her. “Fuckin’ ripe.”

She whimpers, her hands sliding up and down her torso as he laps at her. Tugging and pinching her breasts and before pressing low on her belly. Feeling tender and swollen. Ripe. Was that the urgency of destiny’s pull on her. The demand. Was the window closing on them, not to open till the next moon’s turn?

A surprise slap to her arse snaps her upright, hands clenching in his hair for balance. Grinding herself down on his nose. Drowning in him the sweet syrup flowing freely from her. Relishing his satisfied groans and his hands kneading her backside.

She feels one leave her, snaking down to stroke his cock,. The tell tale slap of skin on skin reminding her of his condition.

“Here, let me.” Twisting herself around to face the other direction. Planting her knees on either side of his head. Bending over him. Scratching up his thighs with her nails. Taking his cock in her fist, and taking the tip in her mouth.

He hisses in relief and anguish as she begins to torture him with her tongue. Circling around and around, licking up the clear droplets escaping him. Hollowing her cheeks, sucking and sliding her lips up and down in easy strokes. Shifting her weight onto her elbows she can reach between his legs and take his stones in her hand. Gently squeezing and pulling, churning the seed inside. Readying it for her womb.

Another spank glares across her arse, his hands grabbing the flesh of her hips to drag her closer. Swiping across her from her clit to the hidden place in her cleft. Her eyes going wide with surprise as he does it again and again.

Diving forward, engulfing him fully. Letting him strain against the inside of her cheek as she traces the veins of his cock with her tongue. Adjusting her position before tasting him again, this time letting him press against the back of her throat.

His hands spread her open, making it easy for him to dip into her well and gather the molten heat. Smearing it around, rubbing roughly against her swollen button. His growling timbre coaxing moans from her. Suffocated noises she hums around his cock as he works his fingers into her.

“That’s it, Dany.” he encourages as her legs begin to tremble and quake. “That’s it, open up for me love.”

Whimpering, eyes watering, she distracts herself from the intensity. Focussing on the stiff mast between her lips. Taking him as far as he can go, flaring her nostrils to suck in deep breath, than taking him further. Letting him breach her throat, and relishing the choked noise that spills from him. Inching him back and forth, weighing the urge to gag against his broken cries of pleasure, until bile rises and she releases him. Coating his cock in a thick sheen of her of saliva.

Jon swears, and drags her back upright. Pulling her close and stealing her breath with his kiss. Her limbs surrender under his lips and she melts beneath him. He tastes like her, as she imagines she tastes like him. Their sweetness mixing together on their tongues as their bodies tangle together.

Her hands smoothing over the strong muscles of his back beneath the thin layer of softness he gained in their decade of peace. Her legs spreading and twining around his hips, urging him to enter. To fit himself inside her and fuck her till she’s full.

And he does. Breaching her with a slow, even stroke until he presses deep inside. Cock stretching her walls as the most delicious noise fills her ear. A small grunt that she’ll never tire of hearing. No matter how often or how much they couple, that noise always escapes when he sheathes himself fully inside of her.

But he is deliberate, not desperate. Keeping her close and open. Covering her kisses, covering her with him. Each stroke long and deep and sure. Their bodies joining in a steady rhythm, tightening a ball of pleasure in her womb. The song of slapping skin becomes a symphony of moans and pants, of his name and hers, of heavy breath and filthy words.

“Your cunt,” punctuating his words with a hard thrust. “Is fuckin’ amazing.” His voice stuttering and shaking, “Do you know how good you feel?”

She writhes in his hold, feverish heat flushing up her chest to her cheeks. Wanting to tell him too. Wanting to tell him how it feels to have the solid mass of him filling her, stretching her, pressing against all her walls. How the curve of his cock slides against a place deep inside that leaves her tender and aching. How she needs him to be apart of her, to leave apart of himself inside of her.

But she can’t, his devouring kiss sealing over her lips once more. His groans filling her mouth as he shifts above her.

Strong hands grabbing her thighs and spreading them open. Her spine curling as his weight pins her into a new position. Folded in half beneath him, his cock driving down into her. Her sensitive petals grinding against his pelvis with each stroke. The tip of his cock pressing against the tender walls of her womb.

“Your fuckin’ taste, your fucking smell. It drives me mad,” His forehead pressed against her chest as his pace quickens. Taking her hard and fast and deep. His body surrounding her, containing the storm raging inside of her within the circle of his arms. Her hands scrape down his back, seeking an anchor to keep her soul in place as she quakes and trembles..

“I’m going to put another baby in you.” he grunts. “So that everyone-” his face red from restraint. “-will know-” thrusting fast and uneven. “That you are-” Burying himself inside her. “Mine…”

Release washes over her. Her cunt collapsing and contracting as it wrings his seed from him. His cock pulsing as a warmth pools deep inside her. Her mind blissful and blank as he grips her hips to keep them locked together. Her soul hovering somewhere above her, until his kisses tack it back into place and she opens her eyes to see his.

His heavy breath slowly returning to normal as he presses another kiss to her lips and another to her forehead before reaching past her to the pillows at the head of the bed. Dragging one over to slip beneath her hips as he carefully pulls his cock from her swollen sheath.

She strokes his beard as he pulls a blanket over them and nuzzles into her side. The whispered words of long love passing between them as the veil of night draws over them. In the peace of this moment, her hand slips low on her belly and slowly polishes the space between her hips. The place where her children have grown, where this new one will too.

What role will this new dragon play in the future of their house? Will they a boy, or another girl? Her heart speaks her secret wish, as her husband's fingers join hers in tracing silent prayerful pattern on the skin of her stomach. A little girl that looks like him. With dark curls and dark eyes. A shadow dragon. A moon to Rhae’s sun. A winter to her summer. An ice to her fire.

“Don’t get too cozy, my queen.” Jon mumbles into her skin with a sleepy lull. His eyes closed and his breath steady. His cock beginning to renew as it presses against the meat of her thigh. “Got to make sure…”

“Well then,” She laughs and kisses him. Turning to her side and pulling him flush against her. Repeating the words she said so long ago. The first mark of trust between them. The words that gave them the chance to fall in love. To bring the dawn. To win the throne. To join their lives. To have two beautiful children. And to do so much more yet to come. “You better get to work, Jon Snow.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beep Boop Beep.  
> I am a robot that feeds on praise.  
> Nommy Nommy Nommy.  
> Put comments in my belly.
> 
> Also thanks to @JustwanderingNeverLost for just being the best cheerleader around.   
> Without her this wouldn't be out till St. Patricks day.


End file.
